


all the way home I’ll be warm

by portraitofemmy



Series: the one with the dog [10]
Category: The Magicians (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Everyone Lives/Nobody Dies, Anal Sex, Angst and Fluff and Smut, Bad Parenting, Depression, Dogs, Edgeplay, Eliot Waugh is a good boyfriend, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, Family Drama, Gentle Dom Eliot Waugh, Holidays, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Light Dom/sub, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Orgasm Control, Post-Season/Series 04, Quentin Coldwater Lives, Sub Quentin Coldwater, depressive episodes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-19
Updated: 2019-12-19
Packaged: 2021-02-26 01:22:27
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,640
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21865168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/portraitofemmy/pseuds/portraitofemmy
Summary: “I feel like I should tell you,” Quentin says, one night in early December, chilly wind blowing outside the penthouse. “–holidays haven’t exactly been the best time for me.”Surviving the Holidays, featuring depression, love, magic, sex, dogs, and family both new and old.
Relationships: Quentin Coldwater's Mother/Molly, Quentin Coldwater/Eliot Waugh
Series: the one with the dog [10]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1404727
Comments: 58
Kudos: 330





	all the way home I’ll be warm

**Author's Note:**

> Credit where credit is due, the idea of Eliot being a portal theorist is inspired by Greywash’s [Theory and Application](https://archiveofourown.org/works/18914959). I’ve tried to do my own thing with it, since that Eliot went back to Brakebills and mine is basically hedge-witching it.
> 
> Shout out to [impossibletruths](https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossibletruths/pseuds/impossibletruths) for bouncing some ideas for me. Also incredible thank you to both [propinquitous](https://archiveofourown.org/users/propinquitous/pseuds/propinquitous) and [saltandpepperbox](https://saltandpepperbox.tumblr.com/) for the cheer leading, beta reading, and general support. I couldn't have done it without you both. <3

“I feel like I should tell you,” Quentin says, one night in early December, chilly wind blowing outside the penthouse. “–holidays haven’t exactly been the best time for me.”

Eliot’s laying on his stomach across the foot of the bed, notebook open in front of him and a reference book off to the side as he continues to poke at some long-range portal theory. It feels a lot like school work, except there’s no deadline and no one grading him, he’s just– satisfying his own curiosity. And if he starts to get a headache from reading the complicated text, he can just stop. Shelve the work until the curiosity pushes him back into the book again. Somehow, that makes all the difference. He might have done a lot better in school, he thinks, if he’d been allowed to read at his own pace. 

Quentin, who’s never been particularly good at portal theory to begin with, had offered to be a sounding board but had absolutely nothing to contribute beyond that. That’s fine, Eliot has always been better suited for larger physical magical undertakings than Quentins. Portals were a hell of a lot closer to telekinesis than mendings. Besides, lately, Q’s been– distracted would be a kind word, and Eliot tries actively to be kind towards Quentin, even within his own private thoughts. 

Right now, he’s stretched on his back with a novel open on his chest, feet kicked up to rest on Eliot’s ass. Because that’s just where the romance is at, at this point in their relationship. When Eliot twists around to look at him, Quentin’s still looking blankly at the book in front of him, right hand playing absently with the puppy’s soft ears where she’s curled up in a little round disk at his side.

“Holidays can be kind of terrible for everyone,” Eliot says, once it’s apparent that Quentin’s not going to take that thought any further.

“You’re loving it all,” Quentin points out shrewdly, which, okay, fair. Eliot has been kind of going a little ‘suburban housewife’ with the holiday decorations. He’d even gone so far as to corner Kady last time she was in the penthouse and ask if she had any Chanukah traditions she wanted him to build into his winter wonderland. He’d gotten a lecture about the relative insignificance of Chanukah as a Jewish holiday for his trouble, but she’d seemed– less prickly than she usually did after that, and then taught him to make latkes correctly, so. Win. 

Q had seemed to be enjoying it all, up until the last couple days, but– sometimes good things can turn on a dime into bad things. Eliot knows that as well as anyone. 

“Hey, get off me for a second,” he prompts. When Quentin lifts his feet dutifully, Eliot shifts, crawling up the bed a little so he can settle at Quentin’s side, propped up on one arm. “Hi there.”

“Hi,” Quentin replies, rolling his eyes. But he closes his book, clearly ready to give Eliot his attention.

Eliot, looking into Quentin’s dear face, reminds himself to be brave. “I am working very hard to have a very fun, very secular Christmas,” Eliot starts, reaching out to take Quentin’s hand, because honesty is easiest when he’s comforting other people. “– because the actual religious stuff is pretty hard for me. So I’m focusing really hard on eggnog cocktails and spells to make Christmas lights actually twinkle, because if I’m focusing on that I’m not thinking about other things. But that doesn’t mean I don’t get how weird this time of year is.”

Quentin nods seriously, that little pinch in his brow that says he’s taking what Eliot’s saying with weight, extrapolating and filling it in with the rest of what he knows about Eliot. Honestly, Eliot’s never been with someone who works so hard to know him. It’s a little terrifying. “Holidays were usually just me and my dad,” Quentin says, and Eliot feels a pang of sadness for him, the loss that Quentin tries not to dwell on. “And it wasn’t– I put him through a lot. Holidays were hard because the world is telling you to be joyful and I was just...”

“Depressed as fuck?” Eliot offers, once Quentin trails off, and it gets him a laugh. Gets him Quentin rolling off his back to tuck in towards his body. Eliot reaches out for him easily, arms settling around him in a comfortable squeeze as Q nuzzles at his neck.

“Kind of, yeah.” His breath is hot and damp against Eliot’s skin, and Eliot nuzzles into his hair. It’s a little stiff with grease, and long enough now to be falling across his face. He could probably use a shower, but now doesn’t seem like the time to point that out. Instead, Eliot just holds him, lets him think through what he’s trying to say. “I spent a lot of my time as a teenager desperate to be somewhere else. Like I would be less– less fucked up, less miserable, if I wasn’t stuck in my life. I just– wanted to run away from everything.”

Eliot, who has run away from just about everything in his life at one point or another, good and bad, just nods. “Secret doors,” he says, following Quentin’s train of thought, and feels Q nod against his throat.

“Yeah,” Quentin breathes out, and he sounds a little choked up. Like he might cry. Eliot’s stomach drops, because shit, he wasn’t prepared for Quentin crying tonight, not when he’s spent the last two hours trying to learn magical astrophysics. But he doesn’t, he doesn’t cry, just holds on to Eliot for a few more minutes then pulls back, a weak smile on his face. “The dumb thing is, now that I have– you know, my own life, on my own terms? All I fucking want is to spend Christmas with my dad again.” 

Jesus. _Fuck_. 

_Eliot_ might cry. 

“I don’t think that’s dumb,” he says, sounding strangled, but Jesus. _Jesus_. _Break my fucking heart_. “I think that’s pretty normal, darling.”

“It’s a good life,” Quentin says, softly, reaching to touch Eliot’s cheek. Eliot turns to kiss his palm automatically. “It’s on my terms and it’s a good life and I _love_ what we’ve– started to build, here. This is what I want, this is what I choose. Even if you hand sewing a stocking for the dog is a little bit crazy, El.”

“Listen,” Eliot gets out on a laugh, “Lady Desdamona deserve nothing but the best.”

“Of course,” Quentin agrees, smile a little less tight, and Eliot lets himself relax into Quentin’s hand cupping the side of his head. “I just want you to know. In case I get weird.”

“Aw, Baby Q.” Eliot leans down to kiss him, short and sweet. “You’re always weird.”

“Thanks,” Quentin says dryly, but some of the tension he’d been holding in his shoulders seems to be gone. He sighs, wriggling away from Eliot to sit up and stretch, and Eliot lets him go. “How are the portals coming?”

It’s changing the subject, but Eliot can’t exactly hold it against him. Just sits up himself and reaches for his notebook, and starts talking through the problem. 

__

Even without the verbal warning, Eliot would have recognized the signs of a backslide. 

Excitement drains out first. Quentin, when he’s in a good place and has energy to spare, has opinions on _everything_. He’s chatty and enthusiastic, all that bubbly nerd energy that Eliot loves so much seeping out of him in rambling speeches and flailing hands. You ask him what he wants to watch or read or do or go and he’ll at least have _something_ to say on the subject, even if it’s just ‘ _if you make me watch Real Housewives again, Eliot, I won’t touch your dick for two days_ ’.

(He makes it 40 hours. It’s actually impressive.)

But when things start tipping the wrong way in his brain, all that _caring_ is the first thing to go.

And the thing is, Eliot can see how hard he’s _trying_. 

He grabs on even harder to all dog-related responsibilities, because Dessy needs to go out, which means Quentin needs to go out, and walking through the chilly New York streets is always good for him. She needs to eat at certain times, so Quentin will eat then too, even if left to his own devices he’d probably just be eating cereal out of the box. 

He’s not, however, left to his own devices.

And making sure there’s something warm and easily palatable ready to eat when it’s dog-feeding time is a really simple thing Eliot can do. It’s something he _can_ do, even, without making Quentin feel too bad about needing to lean on someone. It’s incredibly simple to make a large batch of pasta and tomatoes and pesto and chicken, scoop some into a bowl for Q and throw the rest in the fridge to reheat or eat cold later. 

Still, it worries Eliot, to have Q curled on the couch next to him, silent and drawn and tired looking, puppy nestled into his chest like a dense little weighted blanket. He’s been staring blankly at the television for the last twenty minutes, which is playing some generic holiday movie pulled off Netflix, and Eliot’s been itching to tell him to change it to something else for about fifteen of those minutes. But Quentin would just say he doesn’t care, and that’ll just– it’ll be worse. So Eliot’s sitting with his bad leg extended along the ‘L’ of the couch, notebook and Quentin’s laptop and reference books all within arms reach, and Quentin’s feet tucked under his thigh. Q’s quiet, and doesn’t quite seem like he’s managing invest himself in anything, but he’s trying. At least he’s out here with Eliot, and at least he’s letting himself take comfort in the dog. He’s trying. 

“I think,” Quentin starts, without really breaking his bland stare at the television. “-that I might try to get together with my mom. If she’s– you know, if she’s around and like. Wants that.”

Eliot looks over at him, reaching down to curl his hand around Quentin’s ankle, push the leg of his pants up and his sock down enough that Eliot can rub at his skin a little. After a moment’s hesitation, Eliot says, “Are you sure that’s a good idea?”

He can see, can _physically see_ , Quentin open his mouth to say something caustic and bitchy, and catch himself. Reign it back in, eyes flicking over to Eliot, with a swallow like he’s got to actually consume the words. “... Maybe not,” he admits, and it’s more proof of how hard he’s trying, how much he’s fighting to rein in the tendency to lash out at anyone pushing back on his self-destruction. “But she’s my mom. And you know, it seems like we should try to have one salvageable parental connection between the two of us. And at least she’s here, and not– you know...”

“A punchy homophobic alcoholic?” Eliot fills in dryly, and that gets Quentin to look at him, wry twist to his mouth. “I get it, in theory, why you want that. But I’m also a big supporter of aggressively cutting people out of your life if they make it worse by being in it. We _have_ a family.”

And they do, they really do. It’s maybe a little messy, a little complicated, containing a lot of ex-girlfriends and ex-wives and ex-lovers, maybe a little scattered across the universe. But it’s a family, the penthouse residents and Team Newly Not Fascist Library and the Joint High Kings of Fillory. And Josh. 

“I know we do,” Quentin says softly, and Dessy whines a little, stretching up Quentin’s chest to lick his chin. “But she’s my mom, El.”

“Okay,” is all Eliot can really say to that. It’s not like Quentin needs his permission to begin with, and it’s not like he’d really want to stop him even if it was. He just... worries. It’s hard to tell, when Q’s like this, when he’s doing something that’s going to hurt him because he feels like he deserves to be hurt. Or when he’s doing something that’s going to hurt him because he doesn’t _care_ that it’s going to hurt. It’s the kind of numb abandon that left Quentin letting a Niffin live in his back, left him letting a monster wearing the face of a lover nearly kill him again and again. Eliot can’t really tell if this is the same impulse, if Quentin’s daring something to hurt him because he’s too tired to care anymore. 

Silence stretches out, broken by truly cringe-worthy dialogue from the televisions. Q’s still staring at it when he asks, quietly “Would you come with me?” He shoots a look over at Eliot like he’s not sure if this is one ask too far, if this is finally the thing that’s going to be too much for Eliot to handle.

And well. Eliot can’t exactly blame him, not when the first instinct Eliot has is to run away. But he can see the reaction for what it is: fear. And he’s got a mantra for fear. “I love you, darling,” he says gently, because that matters more than anything else. He’ll do anything, to get to keep doing that. Sliding his hand up Quentin’s pant leg to cup his hairy calf, touch as much skin as he can get right now, he says, “Of course I’ll go with you.” 

“If she agrees,” Quentin says, with a little half-shrug, looking back to the TV. 

Eliot thinks, privately, that if she doesn’t he might be tempted to track her down and yell at her. But that probably crosses the line from supportive boyfriend into overbearing weirdo, so hopefully she will. Giving up on his portal work for a little while, he shifts the laptop off his lap, standing to stretch his stiff leg. 

“If I make tea, will you drink some?” He asks, and gets a mild hum of agreement in reply. 

It’s as good as he’s going to get.

__

“Q’s relationship with his mom is complicated.”

Julia says this, casually, while they’re up to their elbows in lard for a spell. It’s literally all Eliot can smell, and it’s going to be under his nails for _days_ and the stupid dog is going to be licking him _all night_ and she’s over here rattling this off like it’s the fucking weather. And she looks fucking _good_ too, the bitch, like she’s out here making gross spellcraft tasteful and _aesthetically pleasing_. Eliot looks like he’s getting ready to fist a cow. 

“No, shit? And is water wet?” Eliot replies grumpily, rubbing the powdered pine needles between his fingers to sift them into the lard.

“Bitch, it might be,” Julia snips back, flicking her fingers at him so a little chunk of squishy fat lands with a splat on the edge of his shoulder.

“You’re paying to get this shirt dry cleaned,” he threatens, glaring at her. Julia can’t even _do_ the spell they’re working on, all of her knowledge and logic and calculations about magic and she still can’t cast. She still doesn’t have the spark. So Eliot’s here to be her powersource, and apparently get relationship advice he didn’t ask for along the way. 

"It's probably pretty common for divorced kids to feel like it's their fault somehow," Julia starts up again, and dear Eliot buries the urge to strangle her under the reminder that they're both in it for the same reason. They both care about Q. "But it's kind of worse for Q because... he's not entirely wrong? His parents split up before the depression thing kicked in, but a lot of what they fought about was him. I remember being over at his place before they separated and his mom losing her temper with him. We'd hide out in the yard and play Fillory but we could still hear them fighting about it."

Eliot is no stranger to listening to parents argue. He's not even a stranger to listening to parents argue about _him_ , though his mom always gave ground quickly. Objectively, she probably didn't have much choice, was probably as fucked up and scared as he was. Doesn't make it easier to think about. Doesn't make it easier to bury that old hurt, that knowledge that _you need to protect yourself, Eliot Waugh, because no one else is going to step up for you._

He's trying to unlearn that still. The instinct is there even now, to flinch away from the thought, from this whole conversation, to ignore what Julia’s trying to tell him because it’s too– too close to a lot of things that he spends a lot of energy trying not to think about. 

"He was a kid," Eliot says, pointedly, around a weird ache in his throat. "A weird one, maybe, but he didn't deserve-- he shouldn't have to carry responsibility for the adults who were supposed to take care of him."

Is he even talking about Q anymore? He really needs to be. 

"You're right, obviously. And I don't pretend to know everything that caused them to split. His mom started dating Molly less than a year later, so who even knows how much all of that factors in," Julia waves her hand, tiny particulars of spell components flying off into the apartment. "But things have always been messy. She didn't handle his... problems..." 

"Suicide attempts," Eliot fills in bluntly, because one thing he's learned from Q is that sometimes it's easier to call a spade a spade. 

"Yeah. She didn't handle it well," Julia sighs, making a face. 

"I get why you're telling me this," Eliot say cautiously, leaving messy handprints on the table as he leans on his palms. "But he wants me to make this work, and I don't know if I can do that if I'm angry, Jules. And also... How much of this he wants me to know should be up to him."

"Come on, you know as well as I do that we can't always trust Q to make the best choices for himself--" 

"No," Eliot cuts her off, stomach turning a little with residual guilt. "I don't know that. The last time I made a big choice for him it got me possessed and him stuck in a literal living hell. And the time before that, when I thought I knew him better than he knew himself, I broke his heart. I'm not doing this again. This whole thing might blow up in our faces, but he wants to do it for a reason, and he knows it's going to be unpleasant. I need to trust that he knows that any possible fallout is going to be better than not trying."

Julia opens her mouth like she's going to argue then thinks better of it. Instead she shrugs, turning back to the spell they're working on, which is some kind of diagnosis spell. Eliot's never been great at healing magic, but really all he's got to do is actually cast, she's done all of the calculations. Whatever they're trying to do works, Eliot can feel the spell flow through him and catch somewhere inside her body, then flow out again into the waiting components on the table. There a bright flash, and then the spell fades, leaving the the components changed. 

"What's the verdict?" he asks, skin prickling as the leftover magic bleeds out of him. 

"Don't know yet," Julia says, but she looks happy, so. Must be forward momentum one way or another. "It looks like it should. I need to analyze the changes, but I can do that myself."

"So I'm free to go de-lard myself?" he asks, flippant, and it makes her laugh. 

"Yeah, go for it. Thanks. Want to open a bottle of wine after? I think I owe you a drink for helping with this,” Julia says, as Eliot tries in vain to towel off the grease and other spell components from his hands.

It’s tempting. 

God is it tempting. It’s not like– he’s _quit_ or anything, he’s not trying to be _sober_ , they could have a drink. It would be relaxing, right, to have a glass of wine with Julia? Maybe finish the bottle since it’s open anyway. Maybe the world wouldn’t seem so fucking _hard_ if he had a drink or two. Maybe just enough to get to that sweet spot where everything is spinning and funny and he can just be–

“I think,” Eliot starts, bracing his hands on the table and staring hard at the mortar and pestle. Makes himself remember casting spells with Quentin, _Quentin_ , _Q_. “–that if I start drinking right now I’m not going to stop until I black out. And I think we both know what Q would take away from that. So, no, I don’t think I should have a drink. Sorry.”

“You really fucking love him,” Julia says, and there’s a little bit of wonder in her voice that makes him look up at her. How can she have been around for the last eight months and only be figuring that out _now_? 

“I really fucking do,” he agrees, and she blows out a short breath. 

“I mean, I know that. I just... know it’s not easy when it’s like this, I guess, is what I’m saying. I _know_ how hard it is to–”

“It is hard. But Julia, I spent 50 years with him,” Eliot cuts her off, and it’s– an oversimplification maybe, because the memories of the mosaic aren’t exactly real, don’t feel as concrete as life lived in these bodies. But at the very least Eliot’s retained the ability to love with patience, and maybe trusting Quentin to know himself is hard, but he’s working on it. Quentin’s never lied to him, not ever, not even when it comes to questions of _‘how bad is it right now_.’ It is hard to not take it personally, to remember that it isn’t Eliot’s fault that Quentin is the way he is. It is hard, but it’s worth it, because being loved by Quentin is better than anything else Eliot’s ever known. “This is just life.”

“His mom’s not gonna get that,” Julia says shrewdly, and Eliot’s heart sinks. Then she smiles again, that wry little smile that twists at the edge of her mouth. “Josh left some pre-rolls here, if you want that instead. I get the impression that was never exactly your poison.”

He laughs, and holds up his still greasy hands. “I’m going to shower first, but then yeah, sure. Let’s get high and watch a Hallmark movie.”

They’re slightly stoned when Quentin gets home from lunch with Alice halfway through the movie, looking tired and grumpy, but not as drained as Eliot had been half-dreading. It must have been one of the good Alice-days, which is honestly a relief. Q needs everyone he can get pulling for him, and if distance and low-stakes friendship make it easier for Alice to be one of those people, then everyone wins.

Eliot can’t help feeling like he wins most, though, when Quentin toes off his shoes and climbs onto the couch right in the crook of Eliot’s body, head on his chest. He must be able to smell the smoke on Eliot’s skin, cling to his shirt and sweater, which honestly better than smelling like lard. But he huffs out a little half-laugh, nuzzling in, and Eliot smiles at him, unapologetic.

“Have any more of that?” Q asks. Julia snorts, but reaches into the drawer of the little table next to the couch anyway and fishes out another joint. They trade it back and forth, the three of them, as the movie keeps on playing. Eliot breathes more of the smoke into Quentin’s mouth than he inhales himself, loving the intimacy of it, the feeling of sharing breath.

“Are you two just gonna make out?” Julia asks, but she sounds far too chill for there to be any real annoyance in it. “Because I didn’t sign up for that.”

Eliot laughs, rubbing his nose fondly along Quentin’s. God, his _skin_. Eliot kind of wants to spend a whole day just touching his skin. But– Julia has a point. “We’ll be good,” he sighs, sitting back to pass the joint back to her. Quentin hums, cheek settling again on Eliot’s chest, rubbing there a little like he’s getting distracted by the feeling of Eliot’s shirt against his stubble. 

It ends up being the best night they have for a while.

__

Mornings get hard.

Eliot does the best he can to just... go about life as normally as possible. He gets up sometime between 7 and 8, showers, gets dressed, makes coffee, makes food. At some point in that process, Quentin will shuffle out to walk the dog, and feed her, and allow himself to be fed in the process.

But it’s getting later and later.

By the second week in December, Eliot gets all the way through the morning routine, a bagel with peanut butter sitting on the counter waiting for Quentin and Dessy sitting by the door, and. No sign of Q.

He’s still in bed, when Eliot goes to check on him. Curled up on his side facing away from the center of the bed, Eliot can’t see his face from the doorway. But he’s breathing like he’s awake, awake and fighting himself, fast shallow breaths that make Eliot’s heart hurt. God, it fucking hurts, it’s hard to see Quentin like this. To love someone so much, and know that they’re being eaten alive by emptiness– Eliot gives himself a moment, to process the hurt, and then buries it. 

Stepping into the room, he walks over to crouch down at the side of the bed. Quentin’s awake, eyes open and dull, blinking at Eliot like he’s expecting to be told off. Eliot ignores the click of his bad knee, leaning a little on the side of the bed so he can stay eye level with Q.

“Hi, baby,” he says, softly, reaching out to slide his fingers through Quentin’s hair, stiff with grease. Good goal for today might just be a shower, honestly. “Good morning. Think you’ll be able to get up today?”

“I’m tired,” Quentin says, voice rough, and Eliot nods, cupping his palm on Quentin’s cheek. Q nuzzles into his hand a little, so that’s something.

“I know, sweetheart.” Quentin blinks, and so much of Eliot’s heart wants to just– say fuck the day, and crawl back into bed. They don’t have jobs, the benefit of that should be that he can curl up around Quentin’s little ball of misery and hold him and love him until everything bad goes away. If only it worked like that. If only he could just love all the bad away. “Do you need me to take Des out?”

“Don’t– do that, El. Don’t give me that out, because I’m going to want to take it,” Quentin stiffly. It’s always there, of course, Eliot’s never going to let the dog suffer for Quentin’s sickness, but. He does understand what Quentin’s saying. 

“Okay,” Eliot agrees, brushing his thumb against the apple of Quentin’s cheek. “Well, she’s waiting to go, so. Up and at ‘em.”

“Just– give me a minute,” Quentin sighs, rolling over onto his back and scrubbing his hands over his face. 

It takes 10 minutes, but they make it out of the penthouse. Quentin doesn’t change, basically just stuffed his feet into sneakers and tugs on his heavy coat on over his sleep clothes and doesn’t bother with any more outerwear. So Eliot ends up standing in front of him on the elevator, tugging a beanie down over his head and looping him with a scarf while Quentin looks up at him with his big sad basset hound eyes. He does look pretty adorable despite everything, and Eliot can’t hold back his smile, holding the ends of Quentin’s scarf to tug him in for a gentle kiss. Quentin gives it, head dropping down into the crook of Eliot’s neck after, leaning on him. Eliot wraps an arm around his shoulders, and holds on. 

As ever, Quentin comes alive a bit out in the fresh air. For all the work it is to get himself out of the house, it’s almost always a benefit, and he looks clearer, sharper, more physically present in himself as they walk around their neighborhood. Dessy’s out in front of them a little, but she’s got pretty good leash manners and isn’t pulling, just sniffing every single thing in her path and cheerfully refusing to poop.

Maybe she knows it’s better for them to be outside for longer. Eliot wouldn’t put it past her. She is his greatest ally in project Keep Quentin Functioning. 

Or she’s just a dog.

“Can you take her leash for a minute?” Quentin asks, once they’ve circled the block once and decided to head towards the park in case a semblance of nature is required for pooping today. Eliot does so gamely, sliding the tough canvas from Quentin’s bare hand onto his own leather-glove-clad wrist. Dessy does not notice or care, too busy sniffing a granola bar wrapper on the sidewalk. Eliot clicks his tongue at her, shaking the leash a little to get her to leave it alone and she does, trotting on ahead while Eliot looks back to Q.

He’s typing something out on his phone, brow furrowed, not paying even a little bit of attention to where he’s walking. Eliot takes it upon himself to make sure he’s not going to walk into a post or out into traffic, and waits him out, catches him when he stumbles a little on some uneven sidewalk. 

Finally he looks up, holding the phone out towards Eliot with a half shrug and a “Whaddya think?”

They trade back, dog leash for phone, and Eliot scans the message typed out. The top of the text thread says ‘Mom’ and the last message was sent on Quentin’s birthday, a simple exchange of best wishes, almost 6 months old now. The new typed out message reads:

_Hi, Mom. I know it’s a little late notice, but my partner and I aren’t traveling for the holidays, and I was wondering if you and Molly were free to have dinner with us some night in the next couple weeks. We could do pretty much any day, just let me know. Hope you’re doing well!_

Eliot’s stomach does something extremely warm and wiggly reading the words ‘ _my partner’_ typed out with such decisive casualness, like it’s a simple fact of existence. Snow is cold, December is the last month of the year, Eliot is Quentin’s partner. 

God, he’s so dumb, he wants to frame this stupid text message, or keep it in his wallet to look at, physical proof that it matters that he’s trying as hard as Quentin is, because they’re _partners_. 

That is definitely not what Quentin was asking him to look at, though, so he puts it on a shelf to have a moment about later, and reads the message again. It’s stilted, oddly formal, especially since Eliot _gets_ texts from Q on a fairly regular basis. Typically they read anywhere from _‘jsyk kady and penny are here now. they disappeared into Julia’s room and now I can’t stop wondering if they’re all banging. please send hlpe at earliest convenience’_ to just like seven poop emojis and nothing else. The carefulness of this message just screams anxiety at Eliot, but well. That’s why he’s having Eliot read it, isn’t it? Because having someone else check your work makes you feel better about it?

“I think it’s fine,” He says hesitantly, looking back over towards Q who’s chewing absently at his lip, tension in the line of his neck and the set of his shoulders. And Eliot has to ask, because he has to check, has to make sure that this isn’t... more self-destruction dressed up as something else: “Are you sure you want to do this?”

“Yes, I’m sure!” Quentin snaps, grabbing his phone out of Eliot’s loose fingers, thumbing over to press send and stuffing his phone in his pocket. “I’m fucking sure. Because all can think about, all the fucking time, is how I was a _burden_ to my dad, and how I’m a _burden_ to you now, and I just. I know it might be a terrible idea, Eliot, I get it, I really do! But I _never_ got to sort shit out with my dad, and I can’t stop thinking about it, and I never will with her either if I don’t even try.”

“You’re not a _burden_ –” Eliot starts, and Quentin stops walking abruptly enough that Dessy tugs on her leash, pulling out ahead of them before she stops and turns and trots back.

“Don’t bullshit me,” Quentin says, clipped, mouth tugging down in a sour line. “You’re organizing your entire life around me, there’s no way that’s not–”

“Like you do for me?” Eliot cuts him off, because he _can’t_ , he can’t let this train of thought go unfettered. “When I can’t fucking walk, or stand, or move because my body’s a joke? Like you’re not fucking carrying me around half the time? This is what we _do_ , Quentin, this is how we love each other. I hate that your brain’s eating you alive, but I hate it _for_ you. And I will keep letting you lean on me, because it means you’re _here_. As long as you’re here, baby, I can take anything.”

“And how fucked up is it that you even have to think like that?!” Quentin laughs, vaguely hysterical and eyes over bright, voice loud enough that a passerby shoots them a weird look. Quentin shrinks back from the gaze immediately, folding in on himself a little and looking away. He looks so fucking miserable that even the bite of his words lose it’s sting. Eliot sighs, stepping forward into Quentin’s space, until they’re nearly toe to toe and chest to chest. Q lets him in, doesn’t shy away, so Eliot brings his hands up to cup around Quentin’s face, brushing his cold-flushed cheeks with his thumbs. 

“How fucked up is it that you’ve had to watch me die, what, four times? In _this_ timeline?” Eliot points out softly. Quentin swallows, eyes flicking away then back to Eliot. “Our lives are banana pants crazy and the world could end tomorrow. I really don’t mind cooking you breakfast, Baby Q.”

Quentin’s silent for a moment, looking up at Eliot like he’s looking for a lie in his face, or waiting for him to change his mind. Then, all at once, he slumps, nodding. “And you’ll play nice with my mom?”

“Remember who you’re talking to,” Eliot quip dramatically, looping his arm through Quentins as they continue on their way. “I’m charming as fuck.”

“Of course,” Quentin agrees, and he almost smiles.

Quentin fills the dogs water bowl when they get back, and gets them both a glass of water while he’s at it, and eats three quarters of his peanut butter bagel without prompting. He’s still kind of cranky, enough that Eliot elects to give him a wide berth for a couple of hours, folds his yoga mat out on the floor of the bedroom and tries to work through the poses. It doesn’t really work, his knee is decidedly objecting to being a knee today, and he’s still lying on the floor with his good knee folded up to his chest, bad leg extended when Quentin wanders into the bedroom. He crawls onto the bed to lay on his stomach, facing Eliot, hair falling into his eyes. 

“You okay?” Q asks, softly, because even on his worst days Q will snap out of his shit the moment it looks like someone else needs his help. It’s kind of stupidly endearing. 

“Oh, you know,” Eliot sighs, rolling into the stretch a little so he can feel it in his sacrum, then letting his leg relax. Tries bringing the other one up again, just to confirm that it's going to click and stab sharp pain down into his shin. It does. “Probably going to need knee replacement surgery before I turn 35, but your shoulder is made of wood, so. Weirder shit has happened to us.”

Quentin snorts, and even goes through the effort of giving Eliot a half-speculative look, like they’ve had any kind of sex more exciting than a half-awake handjob in two weeks. “All this yoga has done amazing things for your forearms,” he says, and gives Eliot a moment to preen before following up softly to say, “Sorry I’m a bitch.”

“If I say ‘Yeah but you’re my bitch’ it’s probably not going to come out right, is it?” Eliot jokes, give up on the stretch and crunching up so he can move over to sit next to the bed, nearly nose-to-nose with Q. “You’re a prickly bitch sometimes, so what? I’m a dramatic bitch. We live like this.”

“I don’t like fighting with you,” Quentin says, and his voice is soft, but Eliot’s so close right now that it doesn’t need to be anything but. Face to face like this, it’s easy to watch emotions play out across Quentin’s features, unhappiness in the knot of his brown and the downturn of his mouth. “I feel like I broke something earlier and I don’t know how to fix it.”

“Baby, this was barely a fight. This was a tense disagreement. We bicker, we move on. We also live like that, somehow.”

“At least we’re not confined to 20 square feet anymore,” Quentin says weakly. And sure, yeah, they’d bickered more on the mosaic than they did now. They had bickered a lot, the first couple years, less and less as time went on. Bickering had been a pressure valve to deal with the frustration of the puzzle; the less desperately they wanted to solve it, the less they sniped at each other. Now, when space and time apart are easier to come by, it feels like an old familiar rhythm, almost like muscle memory.

“Nope. We’ve got the whole universe at our fingertips.” Eliot reaches up, spreading his fingers through a simple series of tuts just to make light glow in his palm, expand out and fade in a showy flash. Then reaches up to pet his palm over Quentin’s hair instead as he says thoughtfully, “Or we would if the portals worked the way they should.”

Q rolls his eyes, makes a big show of humoring Eliot, then his expression sombers. “You know what the weird thing is?”

“What?”

“I’m really good at talking about depression. You go to therapy for long enough and you get really good at talking about it. You get really good at thinking about it like it’s something outside of yourself. It's like, knowing it fucks up your perspective on things, being able to see objectively that you’re not acting rationally but not being able to stop. But... I also know it’s less this time. I can see, objectively, that my _bad day_ right now would have been a _good day_ when I was 17. Now when the voice in the back of my head says ‘ _you should probably be dead’_ I can just say ‘ _maybe, but let’s have some water first_ ’ and hug my dog, and– that’s such a huge difference from even where I was in _May_ that I don’t know how to even talk about it.” 

Eliot’s heart– _hurts_. He _hurts_ , with pride and with sadness and with love, and he’s not sure what to _say_. God, talking about feelings is Quentin’s thing, Eliot _shows_ his love. But he’s trying, he’s trying, he’s trying to learn for Q, from him. “I think that’s pretty amazing, baby,” Eliot says softly, thumb against the soft hair at the peak of his brow.

“I know the meds make it better, even if I feel grey as shit right now. But I know it’s better, like maybe we got the dosage right this time, so they’re helping instead of– actively making things worse.” He scrunches his nose up a little, cute as hell, and Eliot touches it, brushes his knuckles down the bridge. “I know you make it better, and not just because _love fixes things_ or whatever. But because you see boulders on the path in front of me, and instead of telling me I should just push them out of the way, you climb up first and reach back and help me climb over too. And that feels like _such_ a big ask, so much pressure to put on you, which is somehow _worse_ because it actually helps. It really actually helps.”

Eliot makes himself breathe, listen to what Quentin’s saying, process it. “I get that,” he says after a minute, looking back down into Q’s big brown eyes. “If we’re going on like this for months, I might need to take some time to myself. But even just thinking about leaving you with Jules and going to spend the weekend with Margo or whatever– I don’t _want_ to do that. You’re my _best friend_ , Baby Q. I don’t want to do things if I can’t tell you about them pretty soon after.” 

Quentin’s face does something complicated, flicking between expressions and landing near to cautiously pleased. “Is that objectively healthy? I don’t know how to tell anymore.”

“I think objectively it’s the reason people get married,” Eliot admits, and it makes a kind of excited fear expand in his stomach like a balloon, but– it’s also nice to say. To acknowledge where they’re going. Where they’ve been. Quentin kisses him, which says just about everything there is to say about that, the way it lives in his eyes when he pulls back, the _I love you_ and the _I’m trying_. 

It’s enough. God, it’s more than Eliot would have ever thought he deserved.

“Mom answered me,” Quentin says, like it’s an afterthought. “She doesn’t want to come into the city but if we’ll go out to Jersey then she’s free the 22nd.”

Something about that rubs Eliot the wrong way, but– he’d promised to try too. “Well, looks like I should look into getting a rental car.”

__

Anxiety begins to supersede the numbness, in the week leading up to dinner with Quentin’s mom. 

In some ways, it's easier to handle. He's caring about things again, except the investment carries an edge of hysteria. It leaves him constantly looking about one dropped spoon away from a panic attack. Heightened anxiety makes Q much more able to self-motivate, so he’s showering more, changing his clothes, cooking for himself. Taking care of the dog stops being as much of a lifeline, so he’ll actual play with her a bit rather than just holding on to her like she’s the only thing keeping him grounded. 

It also means that getting out of bed stops being such a battle. On the other hand, Eliot’s pretty sure he's traded lethargy for insomnia. Quentin’s out of bed by the time Eliot wakes up several days in a row, curled up in the chair by the window with a book, wearing one of Eliot's sweaters or wrapped in his grey microfleece blankets. It would be a cozy wholesome image, except for the dark bruises under his eyes, the frayed twitchiness of his bouncing foot.

It also leaves him staring at two flavors of granola bars for about 15 minutes in growing panic, clearly unable to make a choice. And well, maybe Eliot can help with that too.

"Have the peanut butter one, you could use the protein," he says with an aim for mild disinterest, stopping behind Quentin long enough to press a kiss to the back of his head. Tension unspools in his shoulders, and he grabs the peanut butter bar, slumping back into Eliot's side. Eliot catches him, just, arm sliding securely around his chest.

"Why is this so hard? I'm-- fucking 27 years old, I shouldn't shut down like this. Why can't I just-- deal with shit?" Quentin asks, softly, and there's a little bit of whine to his voice, just a little bit bratty. God, Eliot loves him so much it's probably embarrassing. 

"Brain chemistry," Eliot reminds him, swaying them a little. Sometimes it’s easier to deal with the whole thing, Q’s told him before, if you step back and look at it with that layer of distance. It removes some of the guilt, sometimes, if you can shift the blame from personal failure to brain chemistry.

Quentin hums, turning around in Eliot's arms so he can get hugged for real, face tucking warm and right in the crook of Eliot's neck. Brain chemistry might be why everything is so hard, but it also makes Q who he is– Eliot's sweet boy who loves so easily, so bravely, with everything that he is. 

It's almost a surprise when Quentin kisses him. It shouldn't be, they kiss a lot. Except it's been a while since Quentin kissed him like this, soft and warm and inviting, his hot soft mouth falling open on an exhale. It's instinct to hold him, cradle the back of his neck with one palm and flatten the other at the small of his back, tuck him in close. He's so warm and his hair is so soft, and he's still the best thing Eliot’s ever touched. Kissing him shouldn't feel like this, not after monthstogether in this timeline _,_ but it still makes something hot and excited wriggle in Eliot's stomach. _He wants me like this_. _He wants_ me _like_ this. 

Quentin’s breath is hot on his face when they break apart, and Eliot just– Eliot just wants to keep holding him, honestly, would be happy to snuggle up in the couch fall asleep way too early. But the kiss is so good and Quentin feels so good in his arms and it's been a hot second since they've been anything near this intimate, it's sending heat pooling down in Eliot's groin. He's getting hard, just from the press of Quentin's hips into his and the feeling of Q's wet-hot mouth against his mouth. And he can ignore it, he can, erections come and erections go, except Quentin’s making a hot little sound and pushing up on his toes, nose dragging against Eliot's nose as he rubs their mouths together, not even a kiss as he whispers, "Eliot. Help me shut my brain off, please. _Please_ , get me out of my head."

Well. Eliot's more than happy to give that a try. 

There's so many ways he could go about it, so many things he could do to Q that would leave him wrecked and shaking and out of his mind with pleasure. But Eliot wants– _to be close_ , with a burning fire hot in his belly. He wants Quentin in his arms, against his chest, wants to to be inside his hot little body not just because it feels good, but because he’s _Q_ and Eliot loves him so much.

So he gets Q out of his clothes and gets himself out of his clothes, distracted all the while by the way Q keeps pushing up at him, rubbing up against him like he can will himself inside Eliot's skin if he just tries hard enough. There's the temptation to skip fingering with magic, and god knows they do that enough because magic makes anal sex about 300 times easier. But ease isn't the goal here, distraction is. So Eliot gets Q settled in his lap on the bed, thighs spread wide across his legs, and works him open slow. One finger at a time, fitting inside him and crooking just right, until Q’s panting and trembling with every breath. 

"I love your hands," Q groans, barely audible because he's grinding his face into the skin on Eliot's shoulder and neck. Everything is so wet, with the lube coating Eliot's hand between his legs and Quentin’s leaky cock rubbing against Eliot's stomach. "God, fucking– Eliot."

Eliot just laughs, and kisses him quiet. 

Ultimately, they end up back to chest on their sides. Like this, Eliot can wrap both arms around Quentin’s chest, hold him close while they move together. Like this, he can roll them over until Quentin is half on his stomach, just enough to brace and get leverage to rock deep into his body. Like, he can bury his face in Quentin's hair and lick the salty skin at the back of his neck, whisper into his ear how pretty he is and how good he feels, how much Eliot loves him. It's incredible to feel Quentin’s body react to Eliot's words like physical touch, to feel just how much he gets off on the praise, on the love. 

"Eliot, please, I need," Quentin whines, trying to nudge Eliot's hand down from where it's petting his stomach. 

But Eliot doesn't want this to be over, doesn't want to let go of this sharp hot intimacy now that he has it. Burying his face in Q hair, he pets his soft skin and stops his rocking, stills as Q groans. "Just-- wait, can you do that for me baby? Can you hold on for me, let me-- let me stay inside you, sweet boy, you feel so good. I just want to stay right here."

Quentin shudders, whining just a little, involuntary little thrusts of his hips back onto Eliot's cock. But he catches his breath, one fist twisting in the sheets, the other gripping Eliot's wrist, and nods, words escaping on a shaky breath, "Yeah... Okay, yeah. Fuck, El, I just--" 

"I know," Eliot soothes, rubbing one palm all over Quentin's trembling stomach, twisting the other wrist so he can catch Q's hand, tangle their fingers together. "I've got you, baby."

It's a hot, tender thing, to be close like this without the animal drive of fucking, the instinct to push in, again and again and again. _I'm inside him_ , Eliot keeps thinking, stuck on a loop in his brain and curling like fire low in his stomach. But eventually it's too much, and he has to give into it, a slow rock that builds into sharp deep thrusts. 

And fuck, Quentin is _sobbing_ , clinging to Eliot's hand and the bed like it's the only thing keeping him tethered to the ground. Sweat slicks their skin, creating a slippery drag against Eliot's nipples every time he pushes in, and it's just. It's so good. "God, Q," Eliot groans, mouth on his skin because he can't get close enough to kiss but he just wants-- he just _wants._

"I'm gonna-- I want to come, can I come? Please, El, please can I come?" 

"No," Eliot breathes, hot spike of power surging through him as he braces himself, coming to stop. And sweet saints alive, it's hard to stop, he's pushing himself as much as he's pushing Q. But Quentin wanted to get out of his head, and Eliot knows that if he can push just right, push hard enough, he can make that happen. Quentin keens, clenching down hard and it's just such a heady feeling.

"I'm being mean, I know," he purrs, nuzzling into the soft skin on the back of Quentin's neck. "I know sweetheart. You're doing so well."

"Please," Q sobs, repeating over and over again like it's the only word he knows. "Please, Eliot, please, please, _please."_

"Almost," he murmurs in reply, rolling them all the way over now so he can blanket Quentin’s whole body, hold him tight, keep him small and contained the way Q likes, _loves_ , shivers and begs for. "Just relax, sweetheart. I've got you, just let go."

Miraculously, he does. Slowly, in increments, Q goes pliant in his arms, under his body. Desperate pleading drops off into hot little sex sounds, spilling out of Q like he can't help himself as Eliot starts to rock into him again. And fuck, Eliot's so hard it almost hurts, balls drum tight and aching. And this trust, this surrender only pushes him higher. Getting his knees under him, Eliot braces himself and let's go, let's his body drive him onwards, the staccato slap of skin on skin loud in the room, broken only by Quentin’s hot little sounds.

Q's cock, when Eliot gets his hand down on it, is blood-hot and slippery, and Q fucking _shouts_ , a desperate high sound. "Come for me, baby boy, come now," Eliot breathes in his ear, and Q does. His whole body locks up, clenching down hard on Eliot inside him, coming in hot pulses in his hand.

Eliot, helpless, holds on long enough to work him through it. Then he's following over the edge, fucking in deep to spend inside Quentin body, utterly lost. It fucking _lasts,_ waves of pleasure he feels in the tingling in his scalp all the way to his finger tips, leaves him boneless and spent. 

Which, of course means he's kind of crushing Q. Soft nuzzling against the skin on his neck is all well and good, except Q's starting to wiggle, probably uncomfortably sticky. It’s up to Eliot then, to drag himself up off the bed on jelly legs, get Q rolled over so they can clean up. Staring at the wet spot distractedly, he considered changing the sheets, but that's an awfully big undertaking. He'll settle for a cleaning spell for now and change them in the morning. It's hard to be motivated to do much housework when there's a pliant puddle of boy making sleepy bedroom eyes at you. Q rolls toward him as Eliot settles back into bed, tucking in against him in a warm press of limbs. 

"Thank you," Quentin murmurs, and he's curled in so closely that Eliot can feel his lips move on the skin of his chest. 

"It's quite literally my pleasure, darling," Eliot murmurs back, trailing the knuckles of his hand softly across Quentin’s back, over the span of skin where his tattoo lives. 

"I don't just mean– for this."

"There's no thanks necessary," Eliot reminds him, feels Quentin squirm unhappily in his arms. And okay, maybe the thanks are necessary for Quentin, for him to feel like he's not just... a literal thankless task, a _burden_. He's trying to show appreciation, Eliot gets that. Nuzzling his nose down into Quentin’s hair, he kisses him again and again until Quentin's laughing, squirming in Eliot's arms in a whole different type of way. "You're welcome, my love. Anytime."

__

For all the anxiety and the stress leading up to it, Quentin's quiet on the car ride out to Jersey.

Their rental car has a bluetooth hook-up, so Eliot puts on his carefully selected _'Totally Secular Christmas'_ playlist, lets it spill out into the car around them. It's dark already by the time they get on the road, 5pm to make their 7 o'clock reservation, and it's been a long time since Eliot drove at all, much less at night in the snow. It comes back easily, though, and he's always liked driving. He's also always liked being able to flex on people by being _able_ to drive, but Quentin wasn't much fun to flex on. At least not in that way.

Q's quiet, and that thoughtfulness always holds the potential to turn into something bad, to fold back in on itself until Q's all tied in knots. So Eliot casts around for something to distract him, something to talk about in lieu of more endless worrying about the upcoming dinner.

"I used to sing in church choir, you know?" is what he ends up saying, and– why, why the fuck would he bring that up? He's been actively trying not to think about that for like ten years.

But he can see Quentin turn to look at him from his periphery, curious and engaged. Not distant, not checked out. Eliot grips the wheel and braces himself. "Really?"

"Yeah, for like five years. I actually really loved it." Quentin makes an affirmative noise, reaching out, and Eliot takes his hand thoughtlessly. "I loved to sing. Obviously I still do, but. When I was really young, that's all church was to me. That's all I understood. And I loved the way the choir worked, the way the harmony sounded and the music felt. The church we went to, the choir would sing four or five times throughout December, and I remember being so– excited, getting to do this special thing that my brothers didn't get to do."

"Sounds like a good expressive outlet for a kid," Quentin says, measured and careful, because he knows, of course– knows what Eliot's come from. 

"It was. I really loved it. And then I loved it _too_ much, and well." It's hard to hold on to the rosy, burnished glow of happiness tucked in to specific memories, when so much of what followed was– bad, terrible, hurtful, traumatic. But to paint the whole of his life with a wash of ' _bad'_ feels like letting them win, somehow. All those people who'd sang with him when he was cute and five years old and who had turned on him when he got too girly or too weird, all the people in that church who turned a blind eye when Eliot and his mothers and his brothers came to service with bruises, who turned a blind eye when his brother's girlfriends started coming to church with bruises too– he refuses to let those people win, ever, in anyway. "So I found other things to sing about. I found theater. Traded Sunday service for Les Miserables. Got a scholarship to study theater in New York, got the _fuck_ out and never went back. But it never really escapes my notice that _everything_ I am now, I am because I sang in church choir."

"Not everything," Quentin says softly, twisting his hand into Eliot's, curling their fingers together so he's stroking along Eliot's index finger, middle finger, ring finger. "But– it sounds like you took something you loved and nurtured it, used it to make yourself. That's pretty incredible."

"I think you're incredible," Eliot says softly, glancing away from the road to look at Quentin in the darkness, just briefly. "Try to remember that, tonight, okay?"

They pull up to the restaurant, a nice Italian place in a town Eliot's never heard of, but the parking lot seems to be full. Clearly this is a happening location. Quentin's looking at the place like it may or may not require gladiatorial combat from him, fidgeting with the sleeves of his heavy coat. Honestly, he looks nice, like himself but a more polished version of himself, wearing the soft gray trousers Eliot loves and maroon sweater, black button up underneath. Eliot had dressed to compliment him, mostly in navy and light gray, but just a splash of maroon in his pocket square, in the pattern of his tie. It clashed a little with Eliot's brown overcoat, but well. He's aiming to present a unified front more than a comprehensive layer collection. 

"C'mon," he says softly, looping his arm around Quentin's shoulder. Q sways into his side, arm winding easily around Eliot's waist. Perfectly little puzzle piece, filling all of Eliot's empty spaces. "You’ve got this."

"We’ve got this," Quentin repeats, and what else is Eliot supposed to do but kiss his temple, honestly. 

Q's mom and her wife are waiting for them inside the restaurant, standing against the wall like they've been there for a while, even though technically they're five minutes early for their reservation. Eliot lets his arm fall from around Q's shoulders easily as he steps forward to great his mother. She’s shorter than Q, with shoulder length brown hair and patterned glasses. Curiously, Eliot tries to find traces of the man he knows Quentin will grow into in her face, finds it maybe around the lines of her eyes. Quentin has her nose. (Their son, their Teddy, had also had her nose.) It's a kind of uncomfortable, stilted hug, and then Q's pulling back to say an awkward _hi_ to the other woman, who must be Molly. She's taller than Q's mom, about equal height with Quentin himself, long red hair piled up on her head and tied with a scarf. The smile she gives them could almost passes for pleasant.

"Mom, Molly, this is my partner Eliot," Quentin says, stepping back into Eliot's personal space, and Eliot reaches out to offer his hand, winning smile firmly in place. It's not hard to smile with that warm glow of _partner_ burning bright in his chest. "El, this is my mom Jackie and her wife, Molly." 

"It's really nice to meet you," he says, and manages to actually mean it. Jackie's smile is interested and her hand shake firm, but Molly's eyeing him with open speculation. Shaking her hand is less like a handshake, and more like being presented with her hand, like she's some kind of visiting royalty. Eliot, who has both been and entertained visiting royalty, finds himself somewhat nonplussed with this greeting. But the awkwardness doesn't linger, with their table waiting for them already.

The host leads them to a small rectangular table, two chairs set on each side, and Eliot ends up settled across from Molly at Quentin’s left side. It’s their usual position when sitting together, convenient in that it allows Eliot to eat with his left hand and Quentin with his right without knocking elbows, thoughtless in the kind of habit born of muscle memory not entirely their own. He wonders, a little, how they must look to outside observers. But that’s a useless bit of thoughtless navel-gazing, and he sets it aside for now. There’s a bit of small talk to be had, of course, about the weather and the holiday season and drive down from New York.

“You drove?” Jackie asks skeptically, and Quentin rolls his eyes.

“No, Eliot did. No one wants me to drive, including me,” which seems to be a sentiment Jackie agrees with, if her expression is anything to go by. To Eliot, Quentin sheepishly fills in: "Me learning to drive was kind of a nightmare for everyone involved." This earns a round of laughter from the table, but this at least seems to be a personal failing Quentin’s comfortable with. He's a city kid at heart, Eliot knows. If he never has to drive again, all the better to him. 

Once they have wine and appetizers, Jackie looks over at him and asks “So, Eliot, what do you do?”

“I’m a researcher. Theoretical physics,” Eliot lies smoothly, made all the easier it wasn’t exactly untrue. Sure, maybe his career as a research is about three weeks old, but, well. Portal theory was incredibly complex magic that required a lot of muggle scientific calculations. If it wasn’t so fucking practical, Eliot wouldn’t have bothered with it when he started at Brakebills in the first place, but, well. Instantaneous travel. Who the fuck can argue with that. He catches Quentin’s eye and winks, “I’ve always been a physical kid.”

“Jesus,” Quentin breathes, but he looks– pleased, just a little, or at the very least there’s a happy tinge to his embarrassment. 

Eliot knows just enough muggle science to bullshit his way through the follow up questions, and Jackie's curiosity seems more cursory than anything else. Molly, for her part, is quiet, still regarding them with that openly speculative look. 

“You know, you’re different than we expected,” Molly says, and her voice is– edged. Sharp. Something in the quality of it reminds Eliot of sitting in bed on Fillory and watching Fen sharpen knives. “In that you are, in fact, a man.”

“In fact I am,” Eliot agrees mildly, but his stomach sinks. Which is ridiculous, he’s not here to _feel guilty_. He hasn’t let anyone make him feel guilty about this in ten years. Quentin, when Eliot looks over at him, is wearing a look of surprise on his face, like just genuinely... _forgot_ to come out to his mom. It kind of sounds like something Quentin would do.

“Oh, um. Yeah. Sorry, I just– kind of forget that I need to actually tell people,” Quentin says, and for a wildly hysterical moment all Eliot can think is _that’s not me and that’s definitely not you, not when we have a choice_. Jesus. 

“We just didn’t know– I would think this would be something you could talk to me about,” Jackie says, her voice oddly pointed and clipped, refolding her napkin to spread it in her lap rather than looking at him. 

“I haven’t talked to you about my girlfriends,” Quentin points out, a little defensive.

“That’s not exactly what I meant–”

“Yes, I get what you meant, I’m not dumb.” Quentin’s shoulder have gone tight, and when Eliot reaches out to rest his palm on Quentin’s thigh in support, his leg is bouncing minutely. “It’s just not that different to me.”

“I don’t want to fight,” Jackie sighs, stretching her hands out on the top of the table. “It just might have been something we could have in common for once.”

“Yeah, next year’s Pride we’ll get matching t-shirts,” Quentin mumbles under his breath, looking away and then down at the table. And the thing is– well, isn’t that why there’s here? To find common ground? And maybe the sting is too sharp for Quentin, but Eliot can try.

“We went to World Pride in New York this year,” Eliot tells them, trying to steer the conversation back into something pleasant. “It was amazing, really, such a great time. Q’s dog made friends with half the queer population of the eastern seaboard, and tried to escape into the parade.”

“We try not go into the city if we can help it,” Molly says at the same time Jackie says–

“You have a dog?”

And then it’s a good solid 15 minutes of dog pictures on both Eliot and Quentin’s phone. Way more of Eliot’s pictures actually feature Quentin _and_ Dessy, for obvious reasons, but he tries to stick to generic settings, outside in the park or laying on a nondescript floor rather than like... the full view from the penthouse window. Talk about hard to explain. Dog chat carries them through the appetizer course, since apparently Molly and Jackie have two dachshunds and small dog ownership is the solid foundation on which family dinners are built. 

“So how long have you been together?” Molly asks, once their waiter comes by to clear away the appetiser plates. There’s still a hint of that weird edge to her voice, bright and overly cheerful like she’s sharpening the knife. 

This, of course, is a complicated fucking question. Because ‘ _50 years_ ’ sounds crazy, and _‘8 months’_ doesn’t even begin to approach the level of investment they have in each other. They probably should have talked about this beforehand, but luckily Quentin can poker face very well, and Eliot is a good actor. “We met about four years ago,” Eliot cuts in smoothly, folding his napkin in his lap. “I was a year ahead of Q in his grad school program. We’ve been friends for ages, but we’ve been dating for just under a year.” 

“Oh, so you went to– what was the name of your school again?” Jackie asks, waving her hand in Q’s direction like she’s fishing for the answer.

“Brakebills,” Quentin fills in. “Yeah.”

“So you haven’t been together that long then,” Molly continues, knife sharp. _This is a trap_ , Eliot thinks, and doesn’t know how to circumvent it. 

“We’ve been in each other’s lives for a long time,” he says, aiming for a diplomatic middle ground. “There’s a difference between loving someone and being in love with them, but– I think it still counts for something.”

“But you haven’t been through one of Quentin’s little.... _episodes_ before?” 

Eliot nearly cracks a tooth clenching his jaw down tight. He can feel Quentin stiffen beside him, and even Jackie looks a little uncomfortable, her mouth twisting into a tight frown. Jesus, _what_? 

“We’ve been friends for _four years_ ,” Eliot points out, and yeah, sure, okay, a lot of those four years had been dominated by world-ending terror, but if they hadn’t been... if they’d been normal grad students with normal stress, he would have experienced Quentin’s own personal world-ending terror in that time. Definitely saw some of it when Alice was niffined-and-presumed-dead, and that’s not even counting the life that never was. “Sure that’s not the same as being in a relationship but–”

“And don’t forget, there’s also the fact that I was catatonically depressed for most of this last May,” Quentin fills in, brightly sarcastic and _angry_ , good, he should be angry. Eliot looks over at him, reaches out to brush his hand against Quentin’s thigh again. Q just shakes his head, pushing back from the table to stand. “I’m going to go smoke, I’ll be right back.”

There’s a hint of a grimace, an apology on his face when he meets Eliot’s eyes, and he can almost read it on his face: _I’m sorry to stick you here in this mess_. He just nods, but Q’s already gone.

“Really is a filthy habit,” Molly sniffs, reaching for her wine glass, but Jackie’s looking at Eliot, a furrow in her brow.

“I saw him in March, he– seemed quiet.”

“You mean after his _dad died_?” Eliot asks, incredulous. 

“Yes, and _where were you_ for that, exactly?” Molly cuts in shrewdly. “If you’ve been together all this time?”

“I came by later that night,” Eliot lies, because well. His body had, anyway. 

But Jackie’s still looking at him, ignoring her wife completely. “Is he–” she can’t seem to figure out how to approach the question, and Eliot isn’t exactly feeling inclined to help her get there. _Sweat on it_ , he thinks, viciously, chin tipped up with all the pride he can muster. “Are things better now?”

_Better now?_ Are things better now? By Quentin’s own admission, they are. “We’re coping,” he says, because this isn’t _his_ story to tell, it isn’t for him to decide how much they now. Right now, he’s struggling to let go of the impulse to keep them at arms length, but Quentin had wanted to build bridges, not tear more down. “I’d like to think he’s happy. I want him to be.”

“Except _he_ doesn’t want to be,” Molly chimes in, looking at him shrewdly over the rim of her wine glass.

Eliot opens his mouth to _rip her a new one_ , but Jackie gets in first with a quiet, “Molls, _stop_.”

It’s not nearly sufficient, not _nearly_ , but it does at least get in the way enough for Eliot to regain his composure, not fly off the handle on instinct. “I’m gonna go check on Q, excuse me,” he says stiffly, and stands. Doesn’t realize until he’s outside that he’s left his coat at the table. It’s freezing outside, probably close to literally actually freezing, after dark in December, but Quentin is close by, leaning back against the side of the building with half-smoked cigarette in his fingers. 

“It’s Molly always such a bitch?” Eliot asks, arms crossed over his chest against the cold as he wanders up. 

Quentin huffs out a laugh, rolling his eyes. “Kinda, yeah. I mean, she’s never liked me. Doesn’t like kids, and by the time I wasn’t a kid anymore, I was all... _episodes_ and _attention seeking behavior_. I don’t know, I haven’t spent a lot of time with her.”

“That’s kind of monumentally shitty,” Eliot points out, just for the sake of sanity, for the sake of making sure they’re on the same page about this. 

Quentin just shrug, though, taking a drag of his cigarette. The end flares orange, casing a dull highlight on his face in the darkness. "I mean, to be fair, my first attempt was like a month before their wedding," he says, still not looking at Eliot. "Civil unions became legal in New Jersey in when I was in high school. It was unrelated, but– she took it personally. Said I was acting out for attention."

"She called your suicide attempts attention seeking?" Eliot asks, keeping his voice measured and flat so he doesn't start screaming. Jesus. "Please tell me you know that's bullshit," Eliot says, reaching to steal Quentin's cigarette from his loose fingers. Fuck quitting, Eliot only has so much will power and right now its going to other things. 

"Is it though?" Quentin asks mildly, taking his smoke back. "I mean, they call it a cry for help, how is that different?"

For a moment, Eliot feels wildly out of his depth. “Connotation, if nothing else? Fuck, Q, asking for help is a _good_ thing. Even asking for attention when you need isn’t– bad? If you’re sick and not getting the help you need, of course it’s going to end up with you hurt. Would you call a kid needing insulin and getting sick from not having it attention seeking?”

“Molly probably would,” Quentin says, dryly, and there’s a touch of irony when he looks up to meet Eliot’s gaze. “She really doesn’t like kids.” 

"Then fuck her. We can go. We can leave right now." Quentin's face is mostly in shadow, but there's a downturn to his mouth that makes Eliot's heart ache. There's a pause, as the suggestion lingers between them, and then Eliot amends, "Well, not right now, the keys are in my jacket inside. And also that jacket was expensive and we're not _that_ flush with cash."

It gets Quentin to laugh, which had been his aim, but Q shakes his head. He's got that look of determination on his face, that stubbornness that says he's going to stand and fight where Eliot wants to run away. He's so stupidly fucking brave. Eliot's never going to stop being in awe of that. 

"If I leave now, I'm going to regret it," Quentin says, quietly, tapping the butt of his cigarette against the cold brick of the building to put it out, then tossing it in the trash can. "Come on. We've fought gods, how hard can this be?"

Still, Eliot settles his palm on the small of Quentin's back as they weave their way back towards their table, a show of support and a claim all in one. The material of his sweater is soft, and those lovely gray trousers hug his ass perfectly, and Eliot just wants to take him home and unwrap him like a Christmas present. Keep him safe from people who don't understand him and don't care to try. 

The atmosphere at the table is tense, but their entrees had been delivered just as they returned to the restaurant, and that's a good excuse as any not to talk. The food is good, but Eliot hardly tastes it, watching Quentin push Carbonara around on his plate like it might contain the answers to all the problems facing them. 

"So what are your plans for the holiday?" Eliot asks, in an attempt to just –break up some of the awkward tension.

Molly smiles, a kind of over-sweet thing that makes Eliot’s stomach turn. "Well, we’re actually going to Vermont with some friends in a couple of–”

"Are you taking medication again?" Jackie cuts in, looking back up at Quentin. Molly huffs out a breath, but Jackie pays her no mind, looking intensely at her son.

Q nods, swallowing around the mouthful of pasta. "Yeah, um. A lighter dose than before, so it, um. It's working better, I think. Or at least I don't absolutely hate taking it, which um. Helps."

"What are you doing for insurance now that you're not on your father's?"

The question is abrupt, clipped, almost determinedly practical. "Um, though school right now," Quentin replies awkwardly, and Eliot can feel his leg starting to bounce under the table. Reaching out, he settles his hand again on Quentin's thigh, wordless support. "I'm on academic leave, technically, but they'll keep up my insurance as long as I'm still enrolled–"

"Leave, huh?" Molly asks, and Eliot almost kicks her. But she stops there, letting the question hang in the air between them, the implication of it sticky and mean.

"Yes." Quentin tips his chin up definitely, and doesn't elaborate. The fact that he's probably never going to go back to school doesn't need to be spoken allowed, not when it will prompt even more questions. Questions they don't have answers for, when their income and ability to shelter themselves are based around freelance work for the New Order of the Library of The Neitherlands, a kind of wishy-washy retirement plan for being a deposed King, and doing magical quests to earn their rent for a character from Russian folklore. 

Nothing about their lives makes sense even to Eliot, he's not sure how to make it make sense to someone without four years worth of context.

"Education is important, Quentin," Jackie sighs, a furrow in her brow. "Especially since your undergraduate degree is, well... When you said you were going to business school, it seemed like a good plan."

"It's funny," Quentin says, voice acidic with a bite that Eliot hasn't heard from him in a while, looking off to the side instead of meeting his mother's eye. "Because Dad tried to talk me out of it. He said he knew his kid and knew I'd hate it."

"You didn't even tell me you were _gay_ , Quentin," Jackie hisses back, "You don't get to dig at me for not _knowing you_."

"I'm _bisexual_." Quentin's eyes snap back to her face, and Eliot's stomach sinks a little with guilt. "I'm _trying_ , Mom. I asked for this. I wanted you to meet Eliot, because I want him in my life _forever_ and Dad never got to meet him. I don't want to–" He stops, breathing out hard from his nose and looking over at Eliot, who can only offer a weak smile in return. "I'm trying to act like I've got a long life to plan for. And it's hard, sometimes, but I'm trying."

"You _do,_ " Eliot says softly, under his breath, squeezing his hand on Quentin's thigh. The image of Quentin, long white hair and long white beard, delightfully crotchety and incredibly dear, dances up in his memory. And goddamnit, Eliot will see that man again. He _will._

Jackie, when Eliot glances back across the table, is looking at them like she's seeing them for the first time; looking at Quentin like she's seeing him for the first time. "Well, I can certainly respect that," she says quietly, hands folding in her lap. "I never got to introduce Molly to your grandparents either. So. It's nice to meet you, Eliot."

It's like fucking emotional whiplash. But at least they seem to be at the heart of the matter now. "I'm glad I get to be here," he says, honestly, because that will always be true. He'll always be glad for every bit of Quentin's life he gets to share.

They fall back into awkward small talk, Jackie and Molly talking a little about their work. Jackie, apparently, works in administration for a non-profit, and Molly works at an art museum. Eliot's got more than a passing knowledge of art, and that's enough to carry them through the end of the meal. It might even be fun to talk about queerness and the art world, which is not a subject he gets to indulge in often anymore, if not for the anger simmering low in Eliot's stomach. As it is, he mostly manages to keep Molly's attention off Quentin, and that seems like the best they can hope for, all things considered. 

It's bitingly cold by the time the leave the restaurant, but they pause outside the door to say goodbye, breath fogging in the air in front of them. "You need a haircut," Jackie says, reaching up to brush Quentin's bangs off his forehead, but there's an odd quality to her voice. Like maybe she's making the suggestion out of habit, more than because she thinks he'll heed her advice.

"I'm growing it out," Quentin says in response, that same quality of a rote-recitation in his voice, then, "Bye, Mom."

Jackie just nods wordlessly, stepping away to take her wife's hand. Quentin drifts into Eliot's side, and Eliot reaches out for him on instinct, arm curling around his waist. 

"Ready to go?" he asks softly, and Q nods. 

They're most of the way back into the city when 10pm hits, both of their phones chiming with the nightly alarm, the reminder that it's pill time. "I'll drop you off at the penthouse," Eliot offers once the alarms are silenced. "No point in both of us going back to return the car. You can take your meds, deal with Dessy if she's being fussy."

"You're just trying to get out of poop scooping," Quentin teases half-heartedly, then nods. "Yeah, okay, sounds good."

Quentin's sitting on the floor in the living room when Eliot gets back to the condo, cross legged in front of the couch with Dessy in his lap. He's wearing one of Eliot's sweaters over his pajamas, and staring off into space while Dessy stands with her feet planted on his chest, determinedly licking his chin while his hands rub her sides. Eliot’s soft greeting gets him a wane smile, a quiet greeting in returning. 

“Took my pill,” Quentin promises as Eliot sheds his coat, undoing the buttons on his shirtsleeves as he walks across the room

“Good. Did Lady Desdemona do her business?”

“She seems fine,” Quentin shrugs. She seems, in fact, very determined of give Quentin a full facial, but Eliot’s willing to let that slide. He does make a mental note to make sure Q washes his face before kissing him, though. 

Settling behind him on the couch, Eliot reaches out to thread his fingers into Q’s hair. It's not long enough to French braid yet, even with months of growth, but that doesn't mean Eliot can't start the process, weaving the strands together until they start to slip apart. 

"Mom texted me," Q says, voice rough with exhaustion. Eliot lets the strands of the braid fall, scratching his fingers against Quentin's scalp in a way that gets him a quiet hum of pleasure in response. 

"Did she apologize?" Eliot asks darkly. 

Q laughs, finally nudging Dessy down to sit in his lap. "Not exactly. But she likes you. She says she can tell you're good to me. That she and Dad use to worry that... I'd never get that. And she suggested maybe we get together in a couple months without Molly."

It is, Eliot knows, a compromise. Less than Quentin deserves, though, and Eliot's chest still feels tight with anger and sadness. He bites down on the impulse to tell Quentin to cut and run, and carefully starts another braid, hands gentle in Q's hair. "I'd be lying if I said I'm excited to watch you go through this again in a couple of months."

"It is progress, though," Quentin says with a sigh. "It's not like I was expecting to fix everything with one dinner."

_It shouldn't be your job to fix things,_ Eliot thinks, spirals of frustration spinning through his mind. His fingers go stiff and taut in Quentin’s hair, and he has to make himself relax them. Makes himself breathe out on a careful release of breath, and keep stroking.

"I know you don't get it," Quentin says softly. "But she's my mom, El."

"I don't have to get it," Eliot admits, because this is something he's spent three weeks making peace with. It had been a hard-learned lesson, but Eliot knows better now than to pretend he knows what Quentin needs better that Q does. "I'll be here for you either way. But, Baby Q... I want to keep you safe. I don't know how to turn that off anymore, and I don't really want to anyway. I know this isn't something we can fight with battle magic, but part of me still wants to protect you from it."

"Because you’re good to me," Quentin repeats, tipping his head back against Eliot's knee, giving him a little upside down smile. Eliot's stomach swoops, like it had done the first time Quentin smiled at him, the first time Quentin kissed him, the way it had when the best man he's ever known looked at him and said _why the fuck not?_ Lord knows he's trying to be good to him. Quentin’s expression is soft, looking up at Eliot like he can read everything Eliot's on his face. "I really love you, you know?"

Eliot swallows. "I know," he promises, bending almost in half so he can brush their noses together. "I love you too."

"I know."

__

Eliot shuts off his alarm for the next day.

He wakes up to the feeling of Quentin crawling up his body, to the feeling of scratchy kisses pressed to his cheeks, his nose, his lips.

“Mhmf,” is the intelligent reply he offers to this most pleasant way of waking, the breath of Quentin’s laugh against his skin.

“Sorry, but if you sleep a lot longer your back’s going to give you shit for days,” Quentin explains, rolling a little until he’s laying more beside Eliot than on top of him. Eliot twists around enough to see the clock on the bedside shining at cheerful 10am at him, and then turns away, burying the bare skin of his shoulders back under the blanket. Quentin, who is wearing a hoodie and pajama pants, seems comfortable enough sprawled out on top of the blankets.

“Why are you awake?” Eliot asks gracelessly, like it’s early somehow and not the middle of the morning.

“Dog stepped on my bladder,” Quentin replies, nuzzling in close so they’re almost nose to nose on Eliot’s pillow. “Then I took her out. Also made coffee, if you want some.”

“Coffee,” Eliot agrees with a hum, because coffee sounds great. Staying in bed with Q also sounds great, though. He lets his eyes fall shut for another minute, feeling Quentin close enough for the exhale of his breathe to dust across Eliot’s cheek. He might actually start to fall asleep again, except Quentin’s noses in for another soft kiss, nudging gently until Eliot gives in and actually starts to wake up. Q’s watching him thoughtfully when he opens his eyes again. 

“I know this was harder on you than you let me see,” Quentin says, softly, into the stillness of the morning, the little bubble of safety that is the bed they share. “I just– I know, okay. And it means the world to me that you did this for me.”

It’s low on the list of things Eliot would do for Q, but they both know that. They both know they’d kill and die to protect each other, have tested that theory way too many times already. Instead he says, “Kids deserve to be loved unconditionally. Why is that so hard?” 

“I don’t know, sweetheart. It wasn’t hard for us.” Eliot swallows the pang, the ache that comes with remembering how it had felt to hold his son for the first time. _You made the most perfect human_ , he remembers saying to Q, so in awe of the little bundle of life smaller than his forearm. His throat feels raw, and he squeezes his eyes closed against it. “El, I hope you know that I don’t– I understand why you cut ties. I hope you know that none of this was about me judging you for making that choice. It’s different. The situation is different. I get that.”

Some knot of tension between Eliot’s shoulder blades unwinds, just a little. Q’s hand settles on the side of his neck, and Eliot blinks his eyes open to meet his gaze, let himself relax into the familiarity of Quentin’s love. “I think I need to take it easy today,” Eliot admits, and it’s only work and practice that lets him be this honest. 

“Does that mean I get to make you watch all the Star Wars movies and make out with you?” Quentin asks, a little smile curling in the corner of his mouth, and Eliot laughs, feeling a rush of relief. Fuck. They’re going to be okay, after all. 

They do just that. Eliot is, admittedly, way more interested in making out than the movie, but it's hard not to get drawn in to Quentin’s enthusiasm when he cares about something. Especially when his enthusiasm has been so light on the ground for so long. Even feeling a little skinned, a little raw, Eliot finds himself with plenty of touchstones, reminders of where he is and when he is. A big squishy couch and a bunch of soft blankets and a sweet, kind man with his head in Eliot's chest, talking at length about CGI enhancements... What else could Eliot have asked for from his life, really? 

They wander out of the condo in late afternoon, because there's a fine line between being kind to yourself and wallowing, and Eliot needs to be careful toeing that line. But the puppy needs to take a walk, and it's not too cold out, so they might as well walk for a bit longer than strictly necessary. Bundled up, hand in hand, they wander through the streets of Christmas decorations, twinkling lights and garlands and snowflakes. It's beautiful, and New York is beautiful and messy and crowded and terrible and theirs, Eliot's partner and their brave little dog who is unendingly curious and dangerously unafraid of cars.

They end up standing on the edge of a skating rink, watching kids and couples circle around with lights twinkling overhead. There's a tent set up next to the rink selling overpriced drinks, and Eliot spends way too much money for two hot apple cider spiked with cinnamon whiskey. He ends up holding them both, Quentin's hands taken up by an armful of wiggly dog who insists on trying to lick the cup every time he gets ahold of it, but Eliot doesn't mind. Dessy only tolerates being held for so long anyway, then she's wriggling in Q's arms, whining to get down. Eliot passes Q his cup of hot cider, gets a soft kiss for his trouble. Looping his arm around Quentin’s shoulders is the easiest thing in the world, snuggling in together as the watch the skaters cut paths around the rink. 

“Merry Secular Christmas,” Quentin says softly, leaning his head on Eliot’s shoulders as they look out at the skaters. “Which is definitely about spending money and sponsored by Starbucks, and not at all about a poor Jewish pacifist kid from the middle east being born.”

“My father would _hate you_ ,” Eliot says, delighted. 

Quentin laughs softly, nosing up under Eliot’s scarf to kiss the skin on his throat. “Guess that means I’m doing alright, then.”

“More than alright,” Eliot promises. 

It starts to snow on the walk home.

The apartment is unexpectedly full when they get back from their walk. Kady standing barefoot in the middle of the kitchen wearing a buttoned up flannel shirt and what Eliot is pretty sure are Julia's leggings. A menorah with three lit candles sits in front of her on the counter top, along with a scattering of M&M’s and a little wooden dreidel. She nods in greeting, then asks the condo at large: “When’s Hoberman coming back? I need more people to have complicated feelings about my own holiday with instead of yours.”

“Joint Kings and the joint king are back in town tomorrow,” Eliot replies, unwinding his scarf as Quentin leans down to take Dessy’s leash off. Julia and 23 are standing next to the stove where a frying pan is bubbling away happily, back to chest with his arms around her waist, presumably in charge of supervising the cooking process. Alice, he can just see, is sitting on the couch in the living room with her legs crossed, book in her lap.

“Alice is uncomfortable with all holiday observations,” Kady fills in as Eliot steps over to the counter. “Owing to the fact that her family is fucking insane. But she’s here because I made her take time off work.”

“Good,” Quentin says firmly, like he's won some kind of argument, then worming his way in under Eliot’s right arm. Julia looks over at them, her eyes twinkling, and Eliot winks at her. Pressing a kiss to Quentin’s temple earns him a happy hum. “Are we allowed to eat the M&M’s?”

“Only if you win them,” Kady says, sharp grin on her face. Eliot suspects neither of them are going to be eating many M&M’s, somehow, but he settles in gamely to be taught anyway.

The menorah casts a warm glow over the countertop. The smell of cooking onions and potatoes fills the air, and it’s not long before Eliot’s breaking out hot chocolate to spike with peppermint and whiskey. His carefully decorated Christmas tree twinkles away in the corner, woefully bare of ornaments within dog-reaching-distance, but still casting a warm glow of lights over the living room. Next it stands the Fillory clock, unremarkable except for how tomorrow it will open, spilling the rest of their family out into Christmas Eve and the fourth day of Chanukah. Snow drifts down outside, and Quentin leans warmly into Eliot’s chest, laughing as Kady smears applesauce on Julia’s nose.

It feels like home.

**Author's Note:**

> I can be found as portraitofemmy on most places, but check me out on [twitter](https://twitter.com/portraitofemmy) and [tumblr](https://portraitofemmy.tumblr.com/). Thanks for reading!


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